Alvedia sat down beside her. “Mamá, éste es el investigador privado que Tatum nos habló. El está aquí hacernos algunas preguntas sobre Alana.”
“She told her you were here to ask some questions about Alana,” Tatum whispered.
I nodded, fully understanding what had been said. I did hope, however, we could do this in English. My Spanish wasn’t 100 percent and I always worried I was losing something in translation.
“Usted habla inglés?” I asked.
She nodded, then turned to Alvedia. “Get them a cola, something cold to drink. Please, have a seat.” Her accent was heavy and thick, but understandable.
I sat on the other end of the sofa, leaving a rough-looking recliner for Tatum. “My name is Gypsy. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.
She accepted the offer. “I’m Malita Esconderia. Tatum has told you about Alana?”
I nodded. “He’s told me what he knows. I was hoping you could tell me more.”
Alvedia returned to the cramped living room and handed me a canned soft drink, then one to Tatum. She then sat on the worn carpet at her mother’s feet.
“She disappeared two years ago. She had just turned fourteen,” Malita said.
“How did she disappear?”
“She had stayed late at school and was walking home by herself. The last time anyone saw her was at school.”
“Why’d she stay late?”
“She was helping one of her teachers grade some papers. I believe it was Mrs. Carter, her science teacher. Alana loved science. She wanted to be a veterinarian.”
“Did anyone talk to the teacher?”
Malita slightly shrugged. “I assumed they did. But now, I don’t know.”
“When did you report her disappearance to the authorities?”
She glanced at Alvedia. “Alvedia called me when Alana didn’t come home. I said maybe she’s just running late and told Alvedia not to worry. I told her to keep the doors locked until one of us got home.”
“Alvedia was here by herself?”
She nodded. “The elementary school lets out about forty minutes before the junior high. She was usually here by herself only about an hour.”
“And you were at work?”
“Yes. I’m a housekeeper at the hotel in Kermit. I get off at four so the girls weren’t ever here by themselves very long.” Her voice took an apologetic tone. I wondered how many times she had blamed herself for Alana’s disappearance.
“And when you got home and Alana still wasn’t home, what did you do?”
“I wasn’t too worried right then. I thought it was probably taking longer than expected but Alvedia had a soccer game at six o’clock and when she wasn’t home by then, I called the police. Alana wouldn’t have missed her sister’s game. I knew something was wrong.”
“Did you call the Wink police or the sheriff’s department?”
She shrugged. “I just called 911—a sheriff’s deputy came to the house.”
“And what did they say?”
She rolled her eyes. “They said she had probably run away and not to worry. Said she’d probably be back in a day or two.”
Whether a crime had been committed or not, it was sloppy police work. Sloppy as hell. “And you don’t think, even for the slightest minute, that could have been possible?”
She set her jaw firm. “No. Alana was a good girl. She was happy. She made good grades, she had friends.”
I looked to Alvedia for a more honest answer. Sisters know everything. “Was there anything going on she might have been troubled about?”
Wide-eyed, Alvedia shook her head. “No. She never got into trouble.”
“What about a boyfriend? Or maybe a girlfriend she had an argument with?”
Again, Alvedia shook her head. “She didn’t have a boyfriend. And all of her friends were really upset when she disappeared.”
“Are her friends mostly Hispanic or white?”
“Both,” Alvedia and Malita answered at the same time.
“Did any of them drive? Would she have gotten in a car with one of them?”
Malita shook her head. “No. Her friends were all in junior high. None of them had their license yet.”
“Would she have gotten into a car with a stranger?”
Wink wasn’t the kind of town where a kid was snatched off the main road in broad daylight, or even in the cloak of darkness for that matter.
Again, Malita shook her head. “The school’s only four blocks away. She wouldn’t have needed a ride.”
I asked Tatum if he would get my notepad from the van, suggesting Alvedia help him. As soon as they were outside, I turned to Malita. “Is your family here legally?”
Her eyes blazed with fear as she seemed to literally sink into herself.
I moved a little closer and spoke in a quiet voice in case curious preteen ears were within range. “Malita, I’m not with INS or any other agency. No one’s going to report you. Did Alana know y’all were here illegally?”
She looked away from me and stared at her trembling hands. She slowly nodded.
“Would she have gotten into a patrol car?”
She gnawed on her bottom lip as tears welled in her eyes. “She was scared of the police.”
“Would she have gotten into a car with one?”
She nodded. “She would have been scared not to.”
“When she didn’t come home, did you go back to the police?”
She brushed away the tears with the backs of her hands. “Yes. They told us they would list her with that center for missing children. They told us to go home and wait.”
“Did you ever follow up with them?”
After a long moment, she shook her head. “My husband … he was scared.”
Tatum and Alvedia came back in. Tatum handed me the spiral notepad I kept stashed above the visor. I thanked him, then asked Malita what her husband’s name was.
“Rogelio.”
“Does he work?”
She nodded proudly. “Yes. He’s a wrangler at the K-Bar Ranch.”
I choked on the swallow of cola I had just taken. “He works for Carroll Kinley?”
She rolled her eyes again. “Used to. He works for the daughter now. Ai yai yai.”
So the K-Bar was in the practice of hiring undocumented workers. It wasn’t like it was a foreign concept in the area. Still, it bothered me knowing Claire was involved. I pushed the thoughts to the far corners of my mind. My plate was full enough without the added concern of Claire’s hiring practices.
I thanked Malita and Alvedia for their time.
“Can I show Alvedia your cameras before we go?” Tatum asked.
“You drop one and you’re going to pay. And that’s a lot of allowances for a kid your age.”
Tatum grinned, then grabbed Alvedia’s hand and the two hurried out to the van. Malita stood up and walked me to the door.
“Thank you for taking an interest,” she said. “She wasn’t a runaway. I know that in my heart.”
I smiled softly. I didn’t want to tell her that the chances of finding her daughter were slim to nothing. And bringing the people responsible for her disappearance to justice probably wasn’t as high on her priority list as having Alana back home where she belonged, safe and sound.
She gazed out the door at Tatum and Alvedia. “She’s so scared now. I have to take her to work with me because she’s scared to stay by herself.”
“Does she have any friends she can stay with?”
She smiled. “The days I can’t take her with me, I take her over to Tatum’s. Mr. McCallen doesn’t seem to mind, and Tatum … I think he enjoys it.”
I’d say that was a safe bet.
* * *
I took little Romeo back home and followed him into the house. Burke was in the kitchen fixing a sandwich for lunch.
“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” He glanced at me and grinned. “Care for a sandwich?”
“No thanks,” I said
, my appetite not yet what it should be for this time of day. “I wanted to go over Ryce’s files again. See how far he got so I’m not duplicating efforts.”
Burke nodded, then balanced a tray in his lap as he rolled over to the table. He seemed perfectly capable, so I didn’t offer to help. Tatum bounded into the kitchen with the file folder in hand. The kid must sleep with it under his pillow. He handed it to me, then fixed himself a sandwich and joined us.
“When was the last disappearance?” I asked.
“We think about two months ago,” Burke answered. “But it’s hard to pinpoint it. They’re all listed as runaways, and they’re all illegals, so there’s no paper trail.”
“But even if they’re listed as runaways, they should be documented as a missing person. Right?”
Burke guffawed. “In a perfect world. But this is Gaylord Denny’s world.”
I looked through the file, staring at the different pictures, reading the notes Ryce had collected. He’d already interviewed parents, teachers, and friends. There was one girl who caught my attention. Victoria Martinez, kid sister of Hector Martinez—Burke’s so-called shooter. She disappeared July 20, three years ago, three weeks before Burke was shot.
I turned the file around and slid it toward Burke. “Did Ryce interview Hector Martinez?”
Burke slowly shook his head. “He was planning to the week he was killed. Visitation at the prison is Thursdays and Sundays. Ryce had Thursday off.”
“And Denny would know that,” I said.
Burke stared at me hard.
“Who’s Hector Martinez?” Tatum asked between a mouthful of bologna and bread.
“Someone you don’t need to worry about,” Burke said sharply.
“But if he’s in the file—”
“Did you feed Jasper this morning?”
Tatum and his grandfather stared at one another for a long moment, then Tatum quickly finished his sandwich, hopped up, and headed outside. Whether the kid had fed the dog didn’t seem to be the point. Burke didn’t want to talk about Hector Martinez in front of Tatum and the kid understood that.
When we were alone, Burke propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, and looked at me. “There are some things about the case I’d rather him not be involved in.” There was an apologetic tone to his voice.
“I understand. But it’s all related, Burke. Ryce’s death seems to be the culmination and Hector Martinez is a common thread.”
Burke slowly nodded. “And if I knew Ryce’s death was the culmination, I’d say bust it wide open. But I’ve got a twelve-year-old boy out there to think of. I can’t risk anything happening to him, or to me.”
I understood where he was coming from as far as Tatum’s safety was concerned, but I didn’t understand what he asking of me. “I can’t prove Ryce was murdered without proving who did it. You of all people should understand that.”
“I don’t want that kid to come home one day and find me hanging from a tree, too.”
I sighed and pushed my hands through my hair. “You’re scared of Denny, I can understand that.”
He slammed his hand on the table. “I’m not scared of Denny. What else can he do to me? What I’m scared of is what would happen to Tatum if something did happen to me. I’m all that kid’s got, Gypsy.”
I thought of Malita Esconderia and the sadness in her eyes when she spoke of her missing daughter; I thought of Alvedia and the fear she lived with every day. And I thought of Tatum and the childhood that was stolen from him, the fire raging in him to prove his father didn’t take his own life.
“Tatum’s not going to let it go, Burke. Even if I walk away from it, he’s going to keep digging. Would you rather have him go at it alone or have a little help?”
Burke sighed heavily, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. After a long moment, he pointed a stern finger at me. “If anything happens to that boy, it’s on your head. And if anything happens to me … you inherited yourself a kid.”
CHAPTER 8
Rhonda called my cell as I was climbing into the van, heading back to her house. “Yeah,” I said as I buckled up.
“Why is there a UPS truck in my driveway?”
“Oh! My clothes are finally here. Sign for it. I’ll be there in a minute.” I ended the call and backed out of Tatum’s driveway with Jasper furiously nipping at the wheels. Dumb dog. He finally gave up once I hit the pavement, standing at the edge of the yard, barking his fool head off.
A few minutes later, I pulled into Rhonda’s driveway. The UPS truck was gone, leaving behind several large boxes and an irritated Rhonda.
I barely got out of the van before she started. “Gypsy—what is all this?”
“It’s my shorts. I couldn’t fit everything into the van.”
“How many pairs do you have?”
I rolled my eyes at her. “It’s my shorts and other worldly possessions.”
She glared at the boxes. “I thought you were just here on vacation?”
“Really, Rhonda, who goes to west Texas in August for vacation? Can you give me a hand?”
I hoisted up a box and carried it inside, carrying it back to the guest bedroom, my room, so she couldn’t blame me for cluttering the living room. She was standing in the same spot when I went back outside, still staring at the boxes. “Gypsy—why is everything you own packed in boxes? And why are those boxes in my front yard?”
“Are you just goin’ to stand there or are you goin’ to help?” I picked up another box and handed it to her. She struggled under the weight, so I took it from her and carried it inside myself.
Seven boxes total were scattered around the bedroom. Rhonda had moved inside and now stood in the doorway staring at the boxes. She peeled back the top of one and peered inside. Of course of all the boxes there for her to look through, she had to open the one with a framed picture of Claire lying on top. She took the picture out, stared at it a moment, then tossed it back inside the box. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Yes!” I found my shorts and other clothes tucked underneath a Navajo blanket.
“Gypsy?”
I spun around and looked at her. God love her. She did look confused. I sighed, then took a deep breath. “Look, Rhonda, it’ll just be a little while. I promise. Maybe a few weeks.”
She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “Gypsy, it’s not that I mind you being here, but why are you here? What is all this?” She swept her arm over the boxes. “This looks like you’ve left Vegas for good.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed wondering how I was going to explain this. The less she knew, the better. For her own sake. “I needed to get out of town for a little while.”
Her shoulders dropped and she blew a deep breath. “Oh God, Gypsy. What did you do?” She plopped down beside me on the bed.
“Nothing illegal. You’re not harboring a fugitive or anything so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“About that? What do I need to worry about?”
I looked at her for a moment, then stared at the boxes that held my life. “I’d never put you in the line of fire. You should know that. I’m the big brother, remember?”
“So, in other words, you can’t tell me why you’re here, who you’re obviously running from, or why they won’t track you down to my house. Great, just freaking great.” She leapt up and started out of the room.
“Rhonda—just trust me on this, okay? I’ll tell you the whole sordid story when the time’s right.”
She stood in the doorway with her back to me and slowly nodded. “You keep way too many secrets, Gypsy.”
She was probably right. But odd as it was, it was the secret I didn’t keep that got me into this mess.
I traded my jeans for a pair of plaid shorts, then threw on a fresh T-shirt and my leather sandals. The new ensemble was so energizing, I felt like I’d just downed one of the high-energy drinks I lived on during a long surveillance. I bounded out to the van to retrieve Ryce’s file, then s
et up the laptop at the kitchen table.
Gram shuffled into the kitchen, then carried the cookie jar from the counter over to the table. She offered me a cookie as she settled in to watch me work. Within a few minutes, I had access to everything a person would ever want to know about another person. I went for phone numbers and addresses first, did a reverse lookup on the phone number scribbled on the inside of the folder, then sat staring at the name. It didn’t surprise me. Mark Peterson. One of the deputies on the scene when Ryce died. So Peterson had called Ryce about an hour before he died. To tell him what? Details about a case they were working? About a hot girl at the diner? Or to lure him home?
I went to a different program and did a quick background check on Mr. Peterson. He was born in El Paso, thirty-eight years old, married to Susan Peterson, no kids. He’d been with the Winkler County Sheriff’s Department ten years. Prior to that, he spent five years with the Border Patrol. No demerits, not even a speeding ticket.
I switched programs and did a more advanced search, digging deep into his financials. His tax records indicated his net income was $42,000; Susan pulled in $27,000 as an administrative clerk at Kermit Regional Hospital. Not a bad joint income. Their credit history was clean, nothing out of the ordinary. They paid their few bills on time; their credit-to-debt ratio was minimal. There were no bank notes, no car payments, no mortgage payment. Utilities, insurance, home owners’ association dues, and an American Express with a small balance appeared to be their only bills.
The Petersons’ joint income was good, but not that good. Since when did cops live in a neighborhood with dues? The tax value on their home was $335,000. Impressive home on a cop and a secretary’s salaries. Although they had no kids to support, it didn’t explain their high standard of living.
I hooked up the portable printer and printed the Petersons’ financial information, wondering if he could really be that stupid. Cops on the take get busted everyday for living above their taxable means.
Gram looked over the printout. “Isn’t this illegal?”
“What?”
“What you’re doing. That there’s personal information.”
“That’s what I get paid to do, Gram. Find out stuff like this.”
Wink of an Eye Page 6
